


Body in my Bed

by IAmANonnieMouse



Series: Snake Eyes [5]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Murder, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, arthur is a serial killer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26599315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmANonnieMouse/pseuds/IAmANonnieMouse
Summary: There's a body in my bedIt breathes like you, dreams like youBut it don't feel like it used to
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Series: Snake Eyes [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/982113
Comments: 10
Kudos: 24





	Body in my Bed

**Author's Note:**

> Switched songs, we have moved away from Mumford and Sons to VÉRITÉ! (Shoutout to flos for sending me so many awesome song lyrics)

Arthur’s keeping count— _one and two and_ —but it isn’t helping. Isn’t working.

He bares his teeth, looks down again. His hands, grasping hips. Sweat beading on their skin. Loud gasps filling the air.

_One and two and—_

It isn’t fucking working.

“Fuck, right there. Harder. _God._ ”

Arthur tightens his grip, moves faster. Harder. _Stop talking,_ he thinks.

It’s over soon. Not soon enough. 

Arthur walks into the bathroom, cleans himself up. When he returns, Eames is sprawled across the mattress, eyes hooded. “You didn’t bring anything for me?”

 _Stop talking,_ Arthur thinks. _You’re ruining it._

Eames doesn’t listen. He talks, stares, smirks. He moves close, too close, leans on Arthur’s exposed back. Arthur doesn’t hesitate. Slice and dice, easy as pie. 

He’ll need to change the sheets.

Arthur returns to the bathroom. Cleans himself again. Rinses the knife, puts it back under his pillow.

The body is still warm. 

Arthur feels cold.

“You didn’t fucking listen,” he says. The man who isn’t Eames doesn’t answer. That’s okay. He was shit at being Eames anyway.

Restlessness pools in Arthur’s veins, tugging impatiently. He used to be patient. Quiet. Cunning. 

_My sly little snake._

Arthur snarls. He hates what he is now. What Eames has made him.

He packs his things. Grabs the knife. Slices some more, to see if it helps. 

It doesn’t.

He locks the door, tosses the key in the trash. The sun is warm, the streets filled with people chattering in French.

Arthur feels cold.

Eames is in Paris, drowning himself in art and crime. Arthur’s lingered long enough. It hasn’t helped.

Arthur’s still running, quickly walking around the world. America doesn’t want him, Europe reeks of Eames.

Arthur paces and prowls, flies through cities in days, not months, leaves a body or two behind.

He isn’t leaving a trail. He’s just working. 

From Paris, Arthur flies to Egypt, using the passport he stole from Eames.

He left Eames months ago, but he’s buried inside of Arthur like a virus. A parasite. He wrapped around Arthur, tight enough to smother. Merged them until they could never be torn apart.

Arthur wants to cut him out. But he would kill himself in the process. 

“You’re not from around here,” a voice says, lilting and sharp. Arthur doesn’t look too closely. It would ruin it.

They go to the guy’s place, make a mess of his sheets. But this is easier to clean up than blood.

Arthur cleans himself, pulls on his clothes. Ignores the itch under his skin.

“You can’t go yet,” the guy says with a grin. Just like Eames, laughing at the world.

 _Stop,_ Arthur tells himself. _You’re ruining it._

He’s standing at the foot of the bed, fingers tangled in his buttons. 

“My friend really wants to see you,” the guy says, and a weight presses against Arthur’s exposed back, warm and familiar and smothering.

Thief’s hands cover his eyes, calluses everywhere Arthur remembers. “Snake eyes,” Eames breathes in his ear. “My sly little snake.”


End file.
